


What Looks LIke Crazy

by hermette



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-09
Updated: 2010-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-11 15:07:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hermette/pseuds/hermette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after being diagnosed with HIV, Merlin Emrys is managing, if not quite coping. Enter Arthur Pendragon, the man who doesn't know how to take no for an answer.</p><p>Terminal illness: HIV/AIDS, past minor character death, non-explicit alcohol and drug use</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Looks LIke Crazy

**Author's Note:**

> This one took an army. With unholy amounts of love to: ella_bane for digging out all my extra words and then forgiving me when I put them back in, lillaw for holding my hand and swooning in the right spots, amaberis for her fresh eyes, kick_flaw for telling me it was fine and then showing me how to make it better, and for saving it when I tried to ctrl + A + delete the whole thing and ems for ... everything, basically. This thing wouldn't exist at all without you. And of course, to the lovely, lovely mice at kmm for the lovely and thoughtful feedback. I kinda can't believe you gave this a chance.
> 
> The title of this story is taken from the outstanding book What Looks Like Crazy On An Ordinary Day, by Pearl Cleage, which is a beautiful look at living and loving with HIV.
> 
> Written for kinkme_merlin and originally posted there. This version has been thoroughly beta-ed and edited. Any remaining errors are, of course, my own. I own them and them alone.

On Mondays, Merlin works the early shift, six to two. Everyone else begs off -- Mondays, they say, shoulders sagging, put-upon expressions on their faces. Christ, Monday mornings -- but Merlin likes the quiet bustle. He likes the rustle of the newspapers and the steady stream of regulars who, with dark smudges under their eyes, are silently furious at everyone except Merlin, because he's the one with the piping hot legally addictive substance. He serves them their lattes and their grande extra hot no room for milk, no, just black, that's a good lad -- and keeps the music low so that they can hear their PAs through their earpieces.

"Busy morning?" Gaius asks when he gets in just before ten. He opens the register and flips through the receipts.

"Standard Monday," Merlin tells him. He presses his palms flat against the small of his back and leans back, stretching the tension out of his muscles. He doesn't mind the shift, but the long hours spent standing are brutal, and he gratefully accepts when Gaius hands him a green tea and tells him to take a break.

Behind the kitchen is a tiny room, little more than a coat closet with a handful of mismatched chairs; cradling his mug in both hands, Merlin makes his way back to it. He grabs his rucksack from the hook on the back of the door and folds himself into the most comfortable of the chairs. He opens the bag and pulls out his pillbox, a bottle of water and a granola bar.

It took him months, in the beginning, to sort out which pills he had to carry with him, which ones had to be taken with food, which on an empty stomach, but it's a science now. It's a routine. The most horrible, necessary routine of Merlin's life, so he hardly even thinks about it as he pops the lid on the box and shakes half a dozen pills into his hand. He downs them in one with a swig of water and then shoves the granola bar into his mouth. The metallic taste will come and go in a few minutes and then Merlin will drink his tea and go out and finish his shift.

He closes his eyes, leans his head back against the soft cushion of the chair and waits for the nausea to pass.

__________________________

"You're in late today," Merlin tells one of his regulars when he finally gets there just as Merlin is finishing up his shift. The guy smiles, all crooked teeth and carefully rumpled hair and Merlin would be lying if he said this wasn't his favourite part of the day. He usually comes in first thing every morning on his way to work -- a lawyer, Merlin thinks, based on the suits, or a salesman -- and orders a vanilla latte. He never remembers to order soy milk, even though he's lactose intolerant.

"I'm on my way to the airport," he says, handing Merlin a ten pound note.

"They don't have coffee at the airport?" Merlin asks, teasing. He counts out the change and slides it across the counter.

"They don't have you."

Merlin grins and hands the man his coffee. "And where are you flying off to?"

"Madrid," he says. "I'll be gone all week. Five days without your lattes, I shall likely perish."

"You poor sod," Merlin tells him, shaking his head. "My heart, it aches for you."

"Quite right too," he says, flipping open his wallet to put his change away. "It's good of you to feel my pain with me."

"Merlin," he offers.

He smiles. "Yes, I know. And I'm Arthur."

"I know."

Arthur's smile widens. "You don't. You never remember my name."

"But I do remember how you take your coffee."

"You've got your priorities sorted, certainly," Arthur says.

It's usually at this point that Arthur's phone rings or the woman behind him in line starts clearing her throat, but today it's just the two of them, Gaius gone to make a deposit at the bank, and Arthur is fiddling with the insulation sleeve around his coffee. He glances down at the coffee, then up at Merlin, then back down at the coffee.

"I'll be back on Saturday," Arthur tells him. "And I thought ... if you didn't have plans, maybe we could, I don't know. Dinner?"

Merlin's stomach clenches unpleasantly and he feels his smile slide from his face. "Oh," he says. "Oh, uhm -- no. I don't --"

"Oh," Arthur says. "Right."

"Sorry. It's just --"

"I'm very rich, you know," Arthur says, cutting him off. "And successful. And handsome."

"Your teeth are crooked."

"Your ears are enormous."

Merlin's eyes drift closed and for a moment he allows himself to think of what it would be like to say yes to Arthur, to dig a date-night jumper out of the back of his wardrobe and go to a restaurant with Arthur, to let their knees knock together beneath a too-small table. With a bitter twist in his stomach, Merlin opens his eyes and shakes his head. "I can't."

"You won't."

"No, I _can't_."

Arthur sighs, shoves his wallet into his coat pocket and picks up his coffee cup. "All right then. No harm asking."

Merlin shakes his head again and lifts one shoulder. "None."

"See ya," Arthur tells him. He raises his cup in farewell and pushes the door open with his hip.

"Safe trip," Merlin says, long after the door has closed and the crowd has swallowed Arthur up and swept him away.

__________________________

Merlin's flat is in what could almost be considered a nice part of town. It's a small space with one tiny bedroom that barely holds Merlin's double bed, but there are gorgeous floor to ceiling windows in the living room that let in a lovely light, and the lady who lives across the hall is an excellent baker who keeps Merlin well-fed with muffins and scones.

It's cool inside when he unlocks the door and lets himself in. He drops his bag on the floor and pulls his sleeves down over his hands, collapses face first onto his couch. Lunch, he thinks. He closes his eyes and tries to will a plate of chips into existence. It doesn't work.

A minute later -- or maybe ten, maybe twenty, Merlin isn't sure whether or not he's fallen asleep -- his mobile rings. He digs it out of his pocket and presses the 'answer' button.

"Hey, Mum."

"Hello, sweetheart," Hunith says, and Merlin feels himself sag even further into the couch cushions. "How was your day?"

"Fine," he tells her. "It was a day."

"Have you eaten?"

"Yes," he lies.

"Have you?"

"No."

She makes a disapproving noise, and in the background Merlin hears the clatter of pans. He has no doubt a tin of biscuits will be in his mailbox before the week is out. "Anything else happen?"

"I got asked out on a date," Merlin says. He rolls over and sits up, rubs his eyes. Maybe he had fallen asleep after all.

"I don't suppose there's any chance you said yes, is there?"

Merlin snorts. "Yeah, that's likely."

"Merlin," Hunith sighs. "I don't -- it's been three years, darling."

"I'm perfectly aware of how long --"

"I know this is hard. Remember your counsellor said that this would be one of the hardest parts, transitioning to post-diagnosis lovers, but --"

"Mum, please don't say 'lovers' ever again."

"I'm being serious."

"So am I. It's creepy."

Hunith makes a noise of exasperation. "Merlin."

"Mum, I appreciate your concern, I do, but I know what I'm doing, all right? Please don't push me on this."

Hunith makes one more noise, just to make certain Merlin knows her feelings on the matter of his self-imposed celibacy, and then changes the subject, for which Merlin is grateful. He toes his shoes off and rests his forearm across his eyes and lets his mother's voice wash over him as she tells him about her bridge club, about finally coaxing Mrs. Wilson's scone recipe out of her and about how the new couple across the lane had finally had their baby. "A girl named Canyon," Hunith tells him. "Can you imagine? Naming a girl Canyon? Heaven and Earth, it's like people don't even _think_ when they name their children anymore." Merlin laughs, tells her that's a bit rich, and she laughs too, says "Merlin," in that embarrassingly fond, motherly sort of way. Eventually Merlin grins, gets up off the couch and makes himself a sandwich, cradling his phone against his shoulder, and listens to her ramble on.

__________________________

Merlin tries not to care when Saturday rolls around. He tells himself that there are a thousand reasons why Arthur won't be by the coffee shop today, and a thousand more why it wouldn't matter either way, but none of them really make a difference when Arthur walks in around lunchtime in jeans and a button down that looks soft from washing. Merlin's fingers itch to touch it.

"How was Morocco?" he asks, handing Arthur his latte.

Arthur arches an eyebrow. "Madrid," he tells him. "And you knew that."

Merlin grins. He knows he shouldn't, and he knows it's wrong, but he can't help but thrill a little at Arthur's expression and at the flutter in his stomach. It's been a long time since he was chased. "Right," he says. "I forgot."

"Did you? Did you by chance also forget that you declined my dinner invitation?"

"No such luck."

Arthur sighs. "Then I shall have to try again. What are you doing tomorrow?"

"Working."

"You don't work on Sundays."

Merlin frowns. "Stalk much?"

"I'm an accountant, Merlin. It's my job to pay attention to details."

"An accountant, you say. Why, Arthur, I'm seeing you in a whole new light."

"Yes, well," Arthur says. "Perhaps it's not as exciting as a career as a --"

"Barista," Merlin supplies.

"Yes, a barista. But it does afford me the opportunity to buy new shirts before I've worn holes in my sleeves."

Merlin glances down at his wrist, where the cuff of his shirt has worn through from constantly being tugged down over his hands. He can't tell if he should be offended or exhilarated by Arthur paying such close attention to his clothes. He settles on offended. "If this is you charming me," he says, "your technique could use some work."

Arthur sighs, pushes a hand through his hair. "Have dinner with me tomorrow. Let me make it up to you."

"Arthur, I really can't."

Merlin's hands are shaking by the time Arthur finally leaves. He presses them flat against the worktop and closes his eyes, draws in a deep breath. He doesn't know which is scarier: the idea of being pursued by Arthur, or how very close he'd come to saying yes.

__________________________

Merlin spends too long on the phone Sunday afternoon trying to get his Monday shift covered. Everyone has a list of excuses as long as his arm, except Leon who is at least honest enough to tell him, "I wish I could, Merlin, but I don't want to." He sleeps horribly that night, wakes up well before his alarm and lies on his back, arms crossed under his head, staring at the drop ceiling of his tiny bedroom. It's not even really about _Arthur_, he tells himself. It's just been a long time. Three years, he thinks, three years since he arched his back for anyone, three years since he's had sweaty sheets wrapped helplessly around his legs. It's not Arthur. It's nothing to do with Arthur.

For a brief moment, Merlin actually considers going back to that horrid support group, the one where they all sat in a circle, drinking cheap wine out of paper cups and giving their life stories, seeing if anyone could muster up enough of an attraction to anyone else to swap numbers. It was, without a doubt, the single most depressing experience of Merlin's life, and after, he'd gone back to his empty flat and got well and truly pissed, sitting there on the hard floor of his bathroom. He remembers the sour taste of the wine going down, like plums and vinegar, and how truly, desperately sorry he'd felt for himself.

Never again, he'd sworn, and he's kept that vow. But now -- now there's Arthur, and he makes warning bells go off like sirens inside Merlin's head. He makes Merlin feel that low curl of arousal between his legs, that steady thrum of anticipation. It's been so long since he's felt that for another person, ages since, and --

When his alarm sounds a moment later, Merlin jerks upright and yanks his hand out of his pajama bottoms. "Christ," he says, running a shaking hand over his face. He climbs out of bed and forces himself beneath the freezing spray of the shower head and, dread making his footsteps heavy, drags himself to work.

He almost makes it through the day. It's such a close thing. With each hour that passes, Merlin feels the knot in his stomach loosen just a bit more. By ten he's stopped jumping every time the door opens, and by the time the lunch rush is over, he's sketched Gaius in a dress and taped it to the inside of the till. One o'clock comes and goes and Merlin refills the sugar canisters, sneaking glances at his watch every few minutes. When Lance finally shows up at two to take over, relief washes over Merlin even as something like disappointment curls up dark and hurt in the pit of his belly, and he wonders, if Arthur had shown up, if he'd flashed that smile at Merlin and tilted his head to the side in that way he has, what would Merlin have said then? Would he have pushed that want down, pushed Arthur away? Probably. No, absolutely. And for the first time in years, Merlin feels angry about his lot. He feels angry at Will for making it happen, angry at himself for letting his guard down, angry at Arthur for making him feel this thing, this desire to reach his hand out and have someone catch it in theirs.

"Just finishing up, are you?"

Merlin whirls around to see Arthur standing there in the doorway of the shop. He grins and Merlin does his best not to look as jumpy as he feels, heart suddenly beating double time against his chest. He calls a smile to his face and lifts a hand in greeting, says, "You're in late today."

"Actually just headed out for a quick lunch," Arthur says. "Thought I'd pop in and see if you wanted to come with."

"Arthur," Merlin says, trying to keep his tone light. "You can't trick me into going out with you."

"I'm not trying to trick you," Arthur says, and Merlin can tell his voice is pinched, a little too tight, a little too serious. "Just thought you might be hungry."

"Well, I'm not," Merlin says. He grabs a carton of soy milk from the under counter fridge, pours it into a pitcher and sets it to steam.

"Have you eaten?"

Merlin shoots Arthur a glance and pours the milk into a mug. "Haven't you ever been told 'no' before?"

"Never with quite such frequency."

Almost against his will, Merlin feels a smile tug at his lips, fully aware of the warmth at the back of his neck, and he hands Arthur his latte and tells him, "At some point I assume you'll be wise enough to stop asking."

"I don't understand. Have you got a boyfriend?"

"No."

"A girlfriend?"

"No, but --"

"Husband? Wife? Have you taken some vow to the Church?"

"Arthur--"

"Oh God, you're not a priest, are you?"

"_Arthur_. No. It's not you, I swear, all right? If it was just -- " Merlin sighs, pushes his fingertips against his eyes. "It's not you, Arthur. It's me. Please just -- it's me."

"Oh," Arthur says. "Oh, good." He fumbles a bill out of his wallet, shoves it at Merlin and reaches for his coffee. "Good, the old 'it's not you, it's me' speech. Thanks for that; it's exactly what I was hoping for when I walked in here today."

Merlin laughs, humourless, and shakes his head. The anger in his stomach is a hot, heavy thing and just below that, the horrible, unbearable curdle of disappointment and fuck, he should have known better. He should have _known_ better. "You know what? Not everything is about you, you arrogant, self-important asshole." He unties his apron and yanks it over his head. He slams it onto the counter, and it's satisfying, the way the till jostles and how quickly Arthur jumps back as hot coffee splashes out of his cup. "You can go to hell."

__________________________

"I forced him," is what Arthur says when Merlin opens the door to his flat twenty minutes later. He shoves his foot just inside and for a brief second Merlin considers slamming the door anyway, ruining that perfect loafer that probably cost more than a month of Merlin's rent, but he just sighs instead and steps back, opening the door fully.

"You forced who?" he says.

"Lance. I told him I'd get him sacked--"

"_Arthur_."

"I'm joking!" Arthur cuts in quickly, holding up his hands. "Joking, sorry."

"Christ." Merlin pinches the bridge of his nose and sucks in a breath. "You might as well come in," he says. He turns and steps back into the flat, leans against the table and crosses his arms over his chest, leaving Arthur to hover uncertainly by the door.

"I like your flat," he blurts out eventually. "It's ... very blue."

Merlin nods his head once. There are about a thousand thoughts racing through his mind that he can't put words to, and even if he could, he wouldn't. He's not inclined towards making this any easier for Arthur.

"Look," Arthur says after a few moments spent staring uncomfortably at one another. "I know I'm acting --"

"A bit mad?"

"Yeah, a bit mad. I know I'm coming on too strong, OK? I do know that. I'm not daft. And I feel like you want me to apologize, but I'm not really sorry for --"

"Acting like a stalker?"

"For pursuing you. There's something about you, Merlin, and I just can't --"

He trails off helplessly and holds his hands out, palms up. Entreating, Merlin thinks. He bites down on his bottom lip and tugs at one of his sleeves. "You don't even know me, Arthur."

"That's because you won't let me."

"Jesus Christ," Merlin says, shaking his head. His palms are sweating. He tries to dry them on the insides of his sleeves. "Do you always get what you want?"

Arthur smiles a little at that, corner of his mouth curling up, as though he can sense Merlin's resistance crumbling. "Not always," he says, pushing off the door and taking a step towards Merlin. "Frequently. Usually."

"My mum painted my flat," Merlin says. He winces; he's got a whole speech prepared for this sort of situation, calm and detached so it won't hurt when Arthur turns and walks out the door, but right now, with Arthur walking towards him, so gorgeous, so fucking _insistent_, Merlin can't seem to remember any of it.

"Um ... OK? It's ... a lovely colour."

Merlin closes his eyes. Opens them again. He's at least got enough dignity to look at Arthur when he tells him. "I don't even really like blue."

"Then, why--"

"Because my mum painted it," Merlin says again. Arthur has stopped walking, he's standing just in front of Merlin now, close enough that if Merlin reached out, he could press his fingers to Arthur's shoulder. He doesn't though, doesn't because his hands are trembling, because his touch won't be wanted, not after. "It's supposed to be a healing colour, blue. Healing energy."

Arthur frowns. "Healing for what?"

"She painted it after I was diagnosed," Merlin says. His voice is shaking. "With -- HIV."

Arthur gasps, mouth falling open and eyes going wide and Merlin has a moment to think that shock isn't a look he wears well. It looks unpracticed on his face, like his features aren't quite sure how to arrange themselves. "Oh god, Merlin."

"Don't," Merlin says, holding up a hand to cut him off. "Don't. I don't need sympathy and I certainly don't need pity. I just need you to know, because I need you to _stop_."

"Shit." Arthur takes a step back, scrubs his hands over his face. "Shit, Merlin. I had no idea." He drops his hands and looks at Merlin. "You don't look --"

"What, sick?"

"Fuck. I'm saying the wrong things, aren't I? I'm sorry, I --" He exhales, frustrated. "I don't know anyone with HIV. I don't know anyone who knows anyone with HIV."

"Lucky you."

"Shit." Arthur turns and walks into the kitchen, braces his hands against the worktop and drops his head low. Merlin can see the knob at the top of his spine peeking out from under his shirt and he feels a nearly unbearable urge to cross the room, put his arms around Arthur's waist and press a kiss to that place, to soothe Arthur somehow, because even though Merlin is the one who's just laid himself bare, he can't help but feel like he's peeled off one of Arthur's layers, seen an untold place inside him. "Can I get a glass of water?"

"Yeah, of course. They're in the --" Merlin points to a cupboard, then realizes Arthur can't see him with his back turned, so he walks up behind him and opens the cabinet, takes out a glass and fills it from the tap. He hands it to Arthur, who takes a huge gulp and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He puts the glass in the sink and then turns to face Merlin. They stand there for a long moment, watching one another and obviously trying to determine what should be said and by whom, until Arthur breaks the silence, his voice even as he says,

"I've obviously made you uncomfortable with my advances, and for that I apologize."

And Merlin can almost see the wall going up brick by brick and Arthur disappearing behind it. He tries not to feel disappointed, fails miserably, gives Arthur a tight-lipped smile. "'S all right," he says, and it is, mostly. Merlin has played out every worst case scenario on this, every conceivable look of shock and horror. Sometimes, he thinks about stopping and telling people on the streets, the tube, just to see how bad it can go, just so that he knows what the worst looks like and that he can handle it. But no, Arthur is still here in his flat, drinking water out of his glass and breathing the same air he is. Arthur is still just Arthur, raking a hand through his hair and saying,

"-still don't understand."

Merlin frowns, eyebrows drawing together. "Don't understand what?"

"Why you won't go out with me?"

Merlin laughs, incredulous, the sound of it bubbling up and out of his throat. He shakes his head and says, "Are you serious?"

"Yeah, I am."

"That's not really something you risk, Arthur."

"Everything's a risk."

"Not like this."

"But -- I don't want to sound like I'm belittling it or anything, I'm not, but -- don't -- there have to be, I don't know, how many people with HIV and AIDS? Don't they -- why can't you --" Arthur exhales loudly, scrubs his hands over his face. "There must be plenty of people who still have relationships, right? Who have it and still date and have dinner with handsome accountants who track them down after obtaining their addresses through morally dubious means."

"You don't--" Merlin says, but he's almost grinning now, he's on the verge of it, so he pulls his bottom lip into his mouth and worries it with his teeth to stop it happening.

"Have dinner with me."

"No."

"Lunch."

"No."

"Breakfast?"

"Arthur--"

"A film? The theatre? Ballet? The opera? Come on, Merlin, I'm running out of ideas here."

"Mini-golf?" Merlin says in spite of himself, because he's really grinning now, nearly laughing at the fierce determination on Arthur's face and Arthur -- Arthur lets out a bark of surprised laughter, throws his head back and then looks at Merlin, eyes crinkled up at the corners.

He says, "Mini-golf it is."

"Nah, I'm only kidding. I'm rubbish at it."

"Ah," Arthur says, shaking his head, scuffing his foot along the floor as he takes a step towards Merlin. "But that is a yes, isn't it?"

And just like that, it's suddenly not so difficult to nod, to tell him, "Fine, fine, if it'll stop you harassing my friends, I'll have dinner with you."

"Outstanding."

"As friends," Merlin is quick to interject. "Just ... a friend thing, OK? I don't date."

"Fine," Arthur says. "A friendly dinner. I can do that."

He pulls his wallet out and plucks a crisp business card out of it, scrawls his mobile number across the back and presses it into Merlin's hand. "Saturday, then," he says.

"No coffee tomorrow?" Merlin asks.

"Probably not," Arthur tells him. "You have no idea how far out of my way it is."

When he's gone, Merlin slumps against the counter, winded, breath coming shallow in his chest as he turns Arthur's card over and over in his hands, wondering exactly what the fuck he's supposed to do now.

__________________________

\--------

Arthur, as it turns out, is _that guy_. Arthur is the guy who forgets to turn his mobile off in the cinema and then answers the text messages he gets, no matter how many disapproving looks Merlin shoots in his direction. He's also the guy who whispers throughout the entire film, as though Merlin can't see the screen perfectly well for himself. He's the guy who elbows Merlin at all the suspenseful parts, who drinks so much Coke he has to go to the toilet twice and then demands that Merlin recount every detail once he gets back, who gets extra sugar on the popcorn so that Merlin has to keep wiping his fingers on his jeans and then clasp his hands together so that he won't reach over, catch Arthur's hand in his.

__________________________

"As if anyone even cares who the 17th President of the United States was," Arthur says as they tumble out of the pub. 'It was a stupid question."

"It's not so much that we care about the question," Arthur's step-sister says, linking her arm with Merlin's. "It's that we care about how insistent you were about your answer and how very wrong you turned out to be."

"I'm not bringing you to any more pub quizzes," Arthur says, shooting Merlin a dark look.

"You better," Morgana says. She gives Merlin's arm a tug. "You will come back, won't you? Without you we'd have got trounced. _As usual_," she says loudly so that Arthur hears, walking a few paces in front of them. He throws up a rude gesture and Morgana laughs, delighted. "If only we'd listened to you, Merlin, we might have won this week. _For once_."

"Oh yes," Arthur says, tossing the words back over his shoulder. He stops, turns around and gives Morgana a filthy look. "Thirty quid jackpot, split six ways. Wouldn't even have covered our drinks for tonight."

"Not the point, darling," Morgana tells him. "Not the point at all."

Arthur mutters something under his breath, falls into step beside Merlin.

"So," Merlin says, knocking his shoulder against Arthur's. "Not a very good loser, are you?"

For a moment Arthur stares straight ahead, a muscle jumping in his clenched jaw. Then he gives Merlin a sideways glance and rolls his eyes. "Shut up, Merlin," he says. He nudges Merlin with his arm and then leaves it there, pressed warm down the length of Merlin's.

__________________________

"But I don't really even _know_ Morgana," Merlin says as Arthur drags him into the fourth shop of the day. "How could I possibly know what she wants for her birthday. And I'm hungry."

"We'll eat after we find a present, Merlin. Come on, man, show a little fortitude."

"We've been at it for hours, and you keep shooting down every suggestion I make."

"Because I'm not sending her _flowers_, Merlin. If she wanted flowers she'd just buy them for herself."

Merlin snorts, shakes his head at the crystal vase Arthur points out and says, "She can buy anything she wants for herself."

"Which is my point exactly. It has to be something important."

"No, that's why it has to be something personal."

Arthur pulls up short and frowns at Merlin. "And roses are the way to go about that?"

"Roses, god no. Orchids, I would think."

"And you're not just saying this to make me come off looking like an arse?"

"I can't believe you'd even say that," Merlin says, grinning. "How could you believe I'd do such a thing?"

"OK, now I _really_ don't believe you."

"I swear, Arthur. Send her orchids, you'll see. And I'll be proven the smarter of us all over again. Food now."

"Fine," Arthur grumbles. He puts his hand on the small of Merlin's back and guides him out of the crowded shop. "But if this goes badly you're taking all the blame."

"And when she loves them, I'll take all the credit."

"You really are a complete idiot, aren't you? As if I'd ever let that happen."

Merlin grins, presses back against the solid weight of Arthur's hand against his spine.

__________________________

"Morgana loved the flowers," is what Arthur says when he opens the door to his flat and waves Merlin inside.

"Well of course she did," Merlin says. He closes the door behind him and toes off his shoes, leaves them in the entryway beside Arthur's.

"She asked me to tell you thank you."

"Thank you for what?" Merlin asks. He follows Arthur into the kitchen. "Ah, Chinese."

"Orange chicken and twice-cooked pork," Arthur says. "And spring rolls. And I put your name on the card."

"Oh," Merlin says, pulling up short. He's a bit taken back by that, not quite sure what to say, because it's been three weeks now since he agreed to one dinner with Arthur, three weeks of pub quizzes and bad films and eating takeaway in Arthur's flat and throwing bits of burnt popcorn at the telly, and aside from the occasional hand to his back or smile that looks maybe a little too fond if Merlin catches it in the right light, Arthur seems to have taken seriously Merlin's request that they keep things friendly. Merlin alternates between relief and disappointment, but now Arthur is apparently handing out joint birthday presents and Merlin isn't sure what to do with that information. He takes a bottle of water from the fridge, loads his plate and follows Arthur into the living room.

"_Big Brother_?" he says, wrinkling his noise. Arthur glances up, points at Merlin with his eggroll.

"I know you like it, you snob. Just sit down and hush."

So Merlin does. He sits down on the couch beside Arthur and props his feet up and tucks in. It's delicious and Merlin is starving, but he can't help but notice that Arthur is a bit subdued tonight, quiet, making fewer snide comments. Merlin glances at him out of the corner of his eye, takes in the way the flickering light of the telly splashes against the smooth planes of his face.

"You all right?" he says, nudging Arthur with his knee.

"Fine," Arthur says, a little too quickly, reaching down to touch Merlin's leg. It's probably meant to be a fleeting touch, but instead of pulling his hand away Arthur leaves it there, a heavy weight, and then he curls his fingers around the seam of Merlin's jeans, rubs roughly against it, fingers digging in. "Are you --" he says. "You're not --"

Merlin stares straight ahead, suddenly terrified to move. "Am I what?"

"Do you know--" Arthur starts, and Merlin heartbeat stutters high in his throat.

"What?" he manages. "How I got it?"

"Oh god," Arthur says quickly, jerking his hand away from Merlin's leg. "I should not have asked you that. Sorry. Sorry, shit. Just --- oh, fuck me, I'm sorry."

"No," Merlin says. "It's --." He lowers his half-eaten spring roll to his plate, realizes somewhat distantly that his hands are sweaty and wipes them on the rough denim of his jeans. "Yes," he says, cocking his head to the side just enough to be able to see Arthur's profile. "Do you really want to know?"

"Do you want to tell me?"

It's not a funny question, but Merlin laughs anyway, a harsh noise in the stillness of the room. Does he _want_ to? He never wants to tell anyone. He never wants to _have_ anything to tell.. But Merlin has almost blurted it out a thousand times already, and he thinks Arthur probably deserves to know, probably deserves the whole story for not simply turning and running from the room as soon as Merlin had told him. That counts for something, Merlin thinks, so he leans forward and puts his plate on the coffee table and then turns sideways on the couch to face Arthur.

"You don't have to, Merlin, I'm sorry."

"I had a boyfriend," Merlin interrupts. "Will."

Arthur nods once, unblinking, and closes his mouth. Merlin is nearly overcome with the urge to reach across the space between them and comfort him somehow, or maybe to just shake his head, to say 'this was a mistake' and leave, to just walk away, but he can't. He can't stop, now he's started, even though Will's name still feels like a terrible secret inside his mouth, and he barrels on, "We were together for years. We grew up together, actually." He shakes his head, bites the inside of his cheek. "It wasn't always good. We, uhm, we fought a lot. He was angry about, I dunno, life, I guess. Everything. His dad, mostly." Merlin shakes his head again. "Anyway, we had an argument one day, a big one, and he left."

"Just -- left?"

"Yeah. He came back a week later, but --" If Merlin closes his eyes, he can still see Will's face, hear his words, hear how sorry he was, how wrong, how much he loved Merlin, wanted him back, _needed_ him back. "It never even occurred to me that he'd been with someone else. I could barely eat, let alone go out on the pull, but about a month later he got sick with the flu and stayed sick for weeks. He finally went to the doctor and that's when he found out."

"Merlin."

"They caught it early, for both of us. It usually takes longer, I guess, but once we knew he had it, it was only a matter of time for me and -- we both had good prognoses, but Will, he just couldn't take it. He just kept screaming that he'd killed me -- that he'd killed both of us. He started using, hard stuff, all the time." Merlin closes his eyes and pushes out a shuddery breath. The words are tumbling out now and it's awful, _awful_ and Merlin knows exactly what Arthur's face will look like when he opens his eyes, but it feels like some dark thing is unravelling in his chest and he can't _stop_. "It's been three years now and in some ways, it feels like yesterday. In some ways it feels like a lifetime."

"He -- he died?"

"Overdosed."

"Christ, Merlin," Arthur breathes. His hand fumbles across the cushions and lands on Merlin's. Merlin's breath catches in the back of his throat; he turns his hand over and uncurls his fingers, pushes them up and threads them through Arthur's.

"I was a disaster after. Drinking, partying. My mum --" Merlin laughs, swipes at his cheek with his free hand. "My mum came up to London and took my sorry arse home, dried me out. She had all these books and videos about meditation and healing colours and shit and -- it was _wretched_ but .. she got me to calm the fuck down. She helped me find a doctor, get the right meds. I've been stable since, and my T cell count is still really high, so I'm .... I'm OK. I don't _feel_ any differently. I'm not in pain or anything, but --" He trails off and shrugs, finally glances up at Arthur.

It hits him hard then, how _tired_ he is, how utterly weary of holding back and suddenly, quite beyond himself, Merlin _wants_. It sends his heart skittering, heat rushing out from his chest and racing along his limbs. "Arthur," he says and Arthur smiles a little and lifts Merlin's hand. He cradles it in his for a moment and then lowers his head to press a kiss to his palm. Something hot prickles behind Merlin's eyes and he blinks rapidly, staring at the crown of Arthur's head, the vulnerable curve of his neck, and Merlin wants to ask him if they can maybe sit here on the couch like this all night, if Arthur will kiss his palm like that until sunrise.

"I'd like to--" is what Arthur says when he lifts his head. "Can I kiss you?"

"Can you --" Merlin says. "It's, uhm -- kissing is generally considered a safe --"

Arthur's fingers squeeze Merlin's painfully. "I'm asking if I can kiss you."

"All right," Merlin breathes, and it feels familiar somehow, the way Arthur curls his fingers around Merlin's neck and draws him forward, the way he tilts his head and breathes out against Merlin's mouth. Then, it's the easiest thing in the world to lean forward that last inch and fit their mouths together. There's barely anything to it, just the soft press of lips and the heavy thud of Merlin's heartbeat in his ears, but it's enough; it's more than.

Merlin closes his eyes and lets himself hang on.

__________________________

 

"What's this, then?" Arthur says, walking into the kitchen and holding up a sheet of paper. Merlin lifts an eyebrow.

"A sheet of paper?"

"Good, Merlin, that's good. It It _is_ a sheet of paper. What I'm specifically referring to, though, is the sketch on one side which appears to be some manner of wizard and on the other side, there's a list titled _Reasons why falling for Arthur is a terrible, awful, no good, very bad idea_."

"Shut up," Merlin says, reaching for the paper. "It doesn't say that."

"Close enough," Arthur replies, letting Merlin snatch the paper away from him. He's grinning that ridiculously broad, self-satisfied grin that Merlin wants to kiss right off his mouth. "Did you have any luck with that?"

"You know what's bloody infuriating about you?"

"Absolutely nothing."

Merlin groans and balls the paper up and tosses it toward the rubbish bin. "I despair of you."

"Mmmm. Pretty much constantly, I'd imagine," Arthur says, and he loops one arm around Merlin's waist and kisses him. He fits their mouths together softly at first, just catching Merlin's bottom lip between both of his own, then letting it go, then catching it up again. Merlin thinks that he probably ought to push Arthur away, to reprimand him for rummaging around in his things, tell him that he tastes like the garlicy pasta they had for dinner, but instead he just slides his fingers into Arthur's hair and tilts his head to get his mouth the way he likes it. Arthur's fingers are light against the small of Merlin's back, pushing his shirt up and teasing the dip of his spine and Merlin pushes forward to get away from that slight pressure. Arthur hums into his mouth and presses Merlin up against the hard edge of the worktop.

Merlin can't really remember, before Arthur, the last time he kissed just for the sake of kissing. He can hardly remember a time when it was just the falling open of mouths, the slick press of tongues, when just this much contact was a heady, nearly unbearable thing, but Merlin can hardly stand thinking about the number of hours he's spent this past week pushed up against walls and down on chairs with Arthur's bottom lip between his teeth without going red all over. Merlin knows that it's less than ideal, and that Arthur is ready to move on with things, but for now he seems content enough to ruck Merlin's shirt up under his arms and flatten his hand against his stomach, to let Merlin lean in and get the scent of Arthur's skin, the taste of his mouth.

"Christ--" Arthur breathes, twisting Merlin's shirt in his fist. His head falls back and Merlin holds him in place, brushes his mouth along the curve of Arthur's jaw. There are so many thoughts jumbled up inside Merlin's head, words about how badly he wants this, wants Arthur, wants all of it, but he can't quite get a handle on any of them, can't articulate any of the words, so he just clings to Arthur, tries to press the thoughts into his skin and tell him, _Wait, please just wait_.

"Wait," he gasps, pressing his forehead against Arthur's. "Just --" Arthur spreads his hands out over Merlin's back, fingers digging in. He breathes out shakily. "I do want to," Merlin says, and he means it. It's the closest to the truth he can manage.

"Don't. It's -- it's fine. I understand," Arthur says, though he doesn't, he can't possibly. He's trying though, Merlin knows, so he strokes his thumbs under the jut of Arthur's jaw and tips his face up so that he can kiss him again, soft.

"Do you want me to--"

"No," Arthur says quickly, leaning in once more to catch Merlin's bottom lip with the sharp edge of his teeth. "No. When you're ready, we'll -- fuck, I need a minute."

"Sorry," Merlin says again, untangling himself so that Arthur can move away, run a hand through his hair and reach down to readjust himself. Merlin's cheeks flare, and he clears his throat. "I'll just--" he says, gesturing to the living room. Arthur nods, turns on the faucet and splashes cold water on his face.

It would almost be funny, Merlin thinks as he escapes into the living room, if his body wasn't screaming at him to go back in there and finish what he'd started, to strip Arthur down and find out all the ways they can fit together, but Merlin can't stop the wave of fear that breaks over him at that thought. He knows this isn't going to be simple, but he can't help but wish it wasn't quite so damn complicated.

"All right," Arthur says, walking in a few minutes later, clapping his hands together. He looks a little worse for wear, eyes glassy and shirt creased from Merlin's hands, but the set of his jaw tells Merlin not to bring it up, so he slides over on the couch and puts a pillow on his lap, pats it in invitation. Arthur's face curves into a smile and he flops down, rests his head in Merlin's lap and lets Merlin tunnel his fingers into Arthur's hair, twist the strands around his fingers. He turns the telly on, some football game, but neither of them are really watching it. This isn't what either of them really want, not by half, but for the moment the comfort of the shared space is almost enough. Merlin rubs his fingers against the nape of Arthur's neck and watches the way his eyelashes flutter as he closes his eyes, then opens them to watch the telly for a minute, then closes them again.

"I didn't know you drew," is what Arthur says some time later, when Merlin's eyes have drifted closed and his hand has stilled in Arthur's hair.

"Mmm?"

"You draw," Arthur says. "I didn't know that."

"Just --" Merlin shakes his head. "A bit of fun."

"Are you any good at it?"

"You tell me," Merlin says. "You saw it."

Arthur snorts. "Like I know anything about art. I am, as you have so astutely pointed out in number seven on your list there, nothing more than a suit."

"Idiot," Merlin says, smiling already. "I don't know. I mean, that's a bit arrogant, isn't it? You can't really know how good you are at something, can you?"

"Yes," says Arthur, with the confidence of someone who's been good at everything he's ever tried. "Of course you can. And I don't know, so you're going to have to tell me."

Merlin rolls his eyes and tugs at Arthur's hair a bit for that, tells him, "I don't know. I'm all right, I guess. I enjoy it, so--" He shrugs, even though Arthur can't see him. "I drew a novel--"

"How do you draw a novel?"

"A graphic novel."

"What, like a comic book?"

"No, a graphic novel."

"So like, a _long_ comic book?"

"You know what," Merlin says, shoving lightly at Arthur's head, "You go add your debits and credits together and leave me alone."

"You don't _add_ debits and credits together, Merlin. They exist on opposite sides of the accounting equation. The sum of one side must equal the sum of the other side, which is why," Arthur says, flipping over and poking Merlin in the ribs, "they call it balancing the books."

"That's fascinating, Arthur, tell me more."

"It is fascinating," Arthur says, rubbing his cheek against Merlin's stomach. "Because I said it."

"No, you're right," Merlin says. "There is nothing infuriating about you at all."

"I know. It's good, isn't it?"

"Devastatingly so."

Arthur starts to grin, but it turns into a yawn halfway through and he stretches out, back arching like a cat, his hand fluttering over his face as he tries to cover his mouth. "Tell me though, what do you do with a graphic novel? I mean, I assume you read it -- look at it, I don't know. They have these in bookshops and things?"

Merlin smiles and tips his head back on the couch, shakes it and rubs his eyes. "Yes. Bookshops, libraries, that sort of thing. They're almost like real books."

"Hmmm," Arthur says. "You should get yours published."

"Yes, Arthur, because it's exactly that easy."

"Isn't it?"

"Actually," Merlin says, shifting Arthur's head in his lap. "There's a convention in a couple weeks in Bristol, where you can buy a table, you know? And set up your stuff. It's a good way to make contacts, publishers and --"

"So why don't you go?"

"Dunno. Lots of money, isn't it? Seventy quid for a table and then the hotel room and the train ticket, not to even mention getting the book printed up. Besides, it's all a bit of a --"

"A bit of a wha--" Arthur says, the words getting lost on the back of another yawn.

Merlin hums and rubs his thumb along Arthur's cheekbone. "It's late. I should go."

"You could stay."

"I should really go."

"We don't have to do anything if you stay," Arthur says, petulant.

"But we will."

"What, because I'm just that irresistible?"

"Exactly."

"Well you've been doing a damn fine job of it so far."

"Only just," Merlin says, bowing his neck so that he can catch a quick kiss. "Only just."

__________________________

Merlin knows they should probably talk about it first. There are so many rules, so many dos and don'ts, and they're not even remotely sexy, and they should talk about it first. Merlin puts it off, day by day, knowing that in this he's keeping a wall in place so that nothing scary has to happen just yet. He thinks about it in the mornings sometimes, those fuzzy moments between sleeping and waking, and in the evenings, when his lips are still swollen from kissing Arthur's mouth, but he can't bring himself to sit Arthur down and hand him a list, to tell him: _these are the ways you can touch my body_.

And then one day, one Wednesday evening when Arthur has brought work home from the office and Merlin is rummaging around in Arthur's kitchen trying to figure out how to turn pot noodles and tinned peas into a passable dinner, he looks over and sees Arthur -- sleeves rolled up over his forearms, tie loose at his throat, pencil tucked over one ear -- and just gives the fuck up on it. He abandons the food there on the stove and walks over to the couch and climbs into Arthur's lap, crushing papers and folders and knocking a biro out of Arthur's hand, and kisses him. It's easy then, Merlin finds, to let go of that last barrier and kiss Arthur with abandon, to clutch his shoulders and press the hard line of his erection against Arthur's stomach, because it's OK, because it's _wanted_. It should probably be terrifying, but it isn't, because this is Arthur, and Merlin knows him. Trusts him.

"Merlin," Arthur says, gasping the words into Merlin's mouth. "Are you--"

"Yes," is all Merlin can manage. "Yes."

And it seems that that snaps whatever control Arthur had left, because he makes a needy noise that echoes around inside Merlin's head, and pushes his hands under Merlin's shirt and shoves it up, releases Merlin's mouth long enough to lift it up and over Merlin's head. Arthur's tie goes next, then his shirt, then Merlin peels him out of his undershirt and presses in as close as he can get. He runs his hands over Arthur's shoulders, his neck, his back, everywhere he can reach, greedy, drunk on the heady rush of hot skin against skin.

"You feel--" Arthur says, when Merlin pulls back long enough to suck in a breath. "Merlin-"

But he can't stand it, can't bear the words, so he catches Arthur's mouth again and curls his tongue inside. He's too close as it is, too on edge from the feel of Arthur beneath him, the hardness of his dick pressed snug against Merlin's arse, pushing up with every rocking motion Arthur makes. His own cock is pressed tight against his jeans, and Merlin can't help but moan when Arthur gets his hands in between their bodies to unfasten his belt.

"What do you need?" Arthur says, murmurs it against the curve of Merlin's jaw and Merlin's breath catches in his throat, right below the place where Arthur's lips are pressed. He whines, high and needy, and thrusts one more time against the hard line of Arthur's chest.

"I need--" he says, barely managing to get in enough air to form the sounds, "-- need to -- put on a condom -- my wallet."

The world tilts a little as Arthur clutches at him, pushing his hips up and scooting them both to the edge of the cushions so that he can grope at Merlin's arse, and really, it shouldn't turn Merlin on to be manhandled like that, but he's so close, so fucking close that there's pretty much nothing that wouldn't drag him even closer. He grips the curve of Arthur's shoulder and presses his jaw against Arthur's temple, his hips twitching forward in tiny movements that he can't stop, needs to stop, _has_ to stop.

"Can't you--" Arthur says. "Christ, Merlin, you've got to stand -- darling, here--"

And then he's hauling Merlin to his feet, digging his wallet out and flipping it open. Distantly, Merlin hears a rustle and then Arthur is pressing the cool foil of a condom packet into his hand. Merlin curls his fingers around it and gulps in a deep, steadying breath.

"You sure?" he says, the words catching in his throat.

"Bedroom," Arthur replies. He takes Merlin's hand and leads him down the hallway and into the bedroom, where they peel one another out of the last of their clothes, silent except the shifting of fabric and the noises they make as their lips press together and pull apart again.

"You're sure?" Merlin asks again, the need to be certain burning in his chest.

"Quite," Arthur replies, threading a hand into Merlin's hand and cradling his jaw. He presses a kiss there, another to his cheek, one more to the corner of his mouth. He leans back on the bed and Merlin takes a deep breath, and follows him down.

__________________________

There are a thousand things Merlin will never tell Arthur. He will never tell him about the time he, at five, stole a Mars bar from a shop and felt so sick afterwards he took it out and buried it in the back garden. He will never tell him that he slept with a treasured blanket until he was thirteen, until it was worn so soft it was nearly falling apart. He will never tell him that when he got his positive test results he punched Will in the face so fucking hard he was surprised nothing cracked under his fist, or about how he wept at his funeral, that he had to be carried out.

And there are a thousand questions Merlin will never ask. He will never ask about the faded picture Arthur keeps in his wallet, of a woman with his hair and his eyes. He will never ask why he insists on going to Sunday brunch at his father's house every week, though he comes home from it looking so worn around the edges. He will never ask if Arthur cried on his first day of school or if he walked in on his own two feet, back straight even under the strain of a too big backpack.

But it doesn't matter, not really, because Merlin knows that Arthur is a restless sleeper, that he's lactose intolerant but can't resist a creamy Camembert. He knows that Arthur can't sleep if his shoes aren't lined up in the closet, that he likes mustard on his chips and not vinegar. He knows that Arthur is a bad loser, a horrible movie date, ticklish under his left arm. And he knows that when he kisses the inside of Arthur's wrist, his eyes flutter closed, when he sighs, Merlin feels it in his own chest.

Arthur is a language he's beginning to understand.

__________________________

"So we should go away this weekend."

Merlin can't help the rush of affection that crashes over him when he looks up and sees Arthur behind him in the mirror, hair riotous, pillow creases lining his face. He grins around his toothbrush and raises his eyebrows. "Mmm?"

"This weekend. We should go away." Arthur stretches, scratches his stomach where his shirt has rucked up. "Yeah?"

Merlin rinses his toothbrush and turns,reaches out to catch Arthur by the front of his shirt and tugs and Arthur walks forward, smiling blearily. He feels a bit reckless for it, but Merlin can't help wanting to be close to Arthur all the time, now that the thought doesn't feel like a rock in the pit of his stomach. He presses his forehead against the side of Arthur's neck, where sleep has made his skin hot and damp. "Where to?"

"Bristol."

"What on earth would we go to Bristol for?" he asks, nosing at Arthur's shoulder.

"I've got a meeting there on Friday, and I thought you could come with, we could make a weekend out of it. Not to mention that hotel sex is really hot."

"That's perfect," Merlin says, the words escaping on a laugh. "Two weeks in and you're bored of me already."

Arthur chuckles, a low rumble against Merlin's chest and Merlin dips his hands below the waistband of Arthur's boxers. He should probably go ahead and tell Arthur to leave a set of pajamas at his flat, but he loves Arthur in his own boxers and one of Merlin's t-shirts, loves to curl around him in bed and breathe in the scent of his laundry detergent and Arthur's skin.

"Unless you're coming back to bed--"

Merlin groans, pulls back reluctantly. "I'll be late."

"You should move into my bed," Arthur murmurs, following after Merlin to pin him up against the sink. Merlin lets it happen, lets himself be walked backward and held by the hips against the cool surface, lets his head fall to one side so that Arthur can get to his neck. The flat beyond Arthur's shoulder is dark and silent, and it's warm here with Arthur pressed down the length of his body. Merlin sighs, tunnels his fingers into Arthur's hair. "Stay there all day and wait for me to come home and have my way with you."

"As enjoyable as that sounds," Merlin tells him, "I really will be late."

Together they smooth Merlin into something acceptable. When Merlin lets himself out of the flat, Arthur is snoring face first into Merlin's pillows. Merlin grins all the way to work.

__________________________

Merlin grimaces down at the charred egg concoction and says, "Take away?"

"But it said to put it under the grill," Arthur says. He pokes at the pan and the fritatta cracks down the center, sending up a hiss of steam.

"It says to put it under the grill 'briefly'," Merlin tells him, peering down at the cookbook propped open on the worktop. "Did you put it under there briefly?"

"Well that's a relative term, isn't it? Why doesn't it say, you know, an actual time period? Like ten minutes, or something."

"You left it under there for ten minutes?"

"The instructions were unclear!" Arthur insists.

Merlin grins and dumps the wrecked pan into the sink.

"That was a really expensive pan," Arthur says morosely.

"Well, you'll just have to buy ten more."

"Do you know," Arthur says, turning and hooking his hand around Merlin's belt buckle, "what would make me feel better about the loss?"

"A shower? You smell ... charred."

Arthur sighs, sounding victimized, and tells him, "Fine, but there better be food when I get back. And if you get Indian get the thing with the stuff, yeah?"

He shrugs his shirt off and tosses it toward the couch. Merlin rolls his eyes at him, exaggerating it for Arthur's amusement and then remembers. "Hey, you know that comic book expo I was telling you about? It's in Bristol this weekend."

Arthur quirks an eyebrow and says, "I'm not spending our mini-break at a comic book expo, Merlin."

"Well not the whole thing, but we could go for a little while, couldn't we?"

"Define a little while."

"I'm sure we could work out some agreeable arrangement. Balance the books, as it were."

"Fine," Arthur says, eyebrow quirking up. "But I will collect on that."

"You better."

Arthur grins, tells him, "I'm going to go wash the smell of smoke out of my hair."

"What do you want for dinner?"

"Something I can eat off of your bare stomach, preferably."

Merlin laughs and reaches for the phone book.

__________________________

"Looks like there's some weird duck thing too," Merlin says, holding his phone between his ear and his shoulder, and flipping through the pile of glossy brochures he picked up from the racks at reception. "With flamingos and geese." .

"I've absolutely no desire to go to some weird duck thing, Merlin," comes Arthur voice, tinny over the mobile. "I had slightly more naked pursuits in mind."

"Oh god," Merlin says, dropping the _Wetlands Centre_ brochure back into the pile. "You're not at your meeting yet are you? You didn't just say that to a roomful of accountants?"

"Still in the taxi," Arthur says. "But we're arriving, so --"

"See you when you get back," Merlin tells him. "Have fun."

"I"ll be back at four," Arthur says. "Be ready to go when I get there, all right?

"At your service," Merlin says. He can hear the grin in Arthur's voice when he says, "Good bye, Merlin."

Merlin ends the call and rolls over on the bed, knocking a stack of brochures to the carpet. He stretches, lazy and contented in the way that only being away from the hustle of daily life can bring about, and smiles up at the ceiling. After checking into the hotel, Arthur had barely done more than drop his bag in their room before running off to a series of meetings, but Merlin had overheard him on the phone as he closed the door behind him, telling his PA to decline any more requests for meetings as he was planning on spending the rest of the weekend with his boyfriend. The word rattles around in Merlin's head and he lays a forearm across his head and, feeling very foolish, tries it out.

Boyfriend," he says, and he can't stop the stupid grin that curves across his face. "Arthur's boyfriend."

He nearly falls off the bed when his phone rings.

"Missing me already?" he says.

"Merlin?"

"Mum!" Merlin exclaims, sitting up on the bed. "Sorry, I thought --"

"Are you all right?" Hunith cuts in. "You sound a bit odd."

"Yeah," Merlin tells her. He reaches down to collect the pamphlets off the floor. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting your call."

She doesn't say anything. For the longest time, she doesn't say anything, and Merlin pulls his phone away from his ear to glance at the screen and see if they've been disconnected. "Mum?"

"It's Friday afternoon," she says eventually.

"I know, I know," Merlin says, glancing down at his watch. It's just past noon. He should have been expecting her call. "I just ... I'm only now realising I forgot to tell you I'd be going away this weekend."

"You're out of town?"

"Yeah," Merlin says. He grins. "Arthur and I are in Bristol for the weekend."

"Oh," Hunith says, her voice tight, and there are a thousand things in that one word. It feels like a bucket of cold water down Merlin's back.

"What's wrong?" Merlin asks, frowning.

"Nothing," she says, a little too quickly. "Nothing. I just -- I wish you'd told me you were away."

"I thought you'd be pleased."

"I am."

"You don't sound it."

She sighs, long and loud, and Merlin can almost see her rubbing at her eyes beneath her glasses. "I just worry, Merlin. I don't like not knowing where you are."

"You're being unreasonable, Mum," Merlin says, forcing a laugh and knowing that it sounds that way to both of them. "You don't have to worry about me every second."

"I'm your mother, Merlin. That's sort of what I do."

"Well, I don't need you to," Merlin says, finding that he can't quite stop how harsh the words sound, finding that he doesn't quite want to.

"Merlin," she says, placating. "Don't--"

"No," Merlin interrupts. He exhales, frustrated and stands up, unable somehow to sit any longer. "No. I'm a grown man, Mum. I don't need your permission to go away with my boyfriend."

"Boyfriend?"

"Yeah, Mum. And if I want to go away with him for the weekend, I will. I don't need you to coddle me. I can do what I want with who I want and it's --"

"_No._" she says sharply. "No you _can't_, Merlin."

The silence that follows is painful. Merlin sways on his feet and grips the phone, staring down at the rumpled bed -- the duvet is striped: brown, gold, cream, brown, gold, cream -- and feels his pulse hammer in his temples. He moves his free hand to the back of his neck and pushes against the tightness he finds there. There's something too much like anger curling up hot around his spine and he can't --

"And -- and what if you got ill?" she asks hurriedly, trampling over the stillness between them. "Or ran out of one of your medications? Or knocked one over in the sink, Merlin? You could--".

"It's been three years, Mum," Merlin says, spitting out the words. "Three years. I know what to --"

"I _worry_ about you."

"Well, stop it," he bites out.

"I love you, Merlin. I just don't want you to get careless."

"I've got to go."

"_Merlin_."

"Arthur will be back any minute, Mum, and I don't want him to -- I've got to go."

"Call me tomorr--"

Merlin's stomach churns, but he presses the 'end call' button anyway. He drops the phone on the bed, stares at it blindly for a moment and then glances up and looks around the room, like seeing it for the first time. He takes it all in, the size and the scale of it, the fine linens and the polished wood of the furniture. Arthur's monogrammed luggage is resting just inside the door, and beside it, Merlin's duffel bag looks worn and old. Merlin closes his eyes and exhales.

He doesn't belong here.

__________________________

He's got Arthur up against the wall before the door even clicks shut behind him. Arthur makes a surprised _umph_ noise and then laughs into Merlin's mouth.

"Missed me, did you?" he asks.

"I want you right now," Merlin replies, snaking a hand between them to work at Arthur's belt buckle. It's been three hours now that he's been stuck inside this hotel room, inside his own head and Merlin claws at Arthur's suit, frantic and desperate, trying to get to his skin. He's breathing hard already and he wants -- god, he _wants_. This isn't his place; not here with Arthur, not like this, but maybe -- maybe if he wants it hard enough --

"Christ," Arthur groans, reaching around to palm Merlin's arse. "What have you been doing since I left? You know the names of the films you order show up on the bill, right?"

Merlin laughs, breathless and triumphant at getting Arthur's belt undone one-handed. "Clothes off," he tells him, pulling back to yank at his jacket. "Now."

"Merlin," Arthur breathes. He pushes off the wall and walks Merlin backward. Merlin's knees hit the arm of the couch and Arthur keeps pushing, following him down as they topple onto the cushions. It's lovely, _lovely_, and Merlin arches his back and wraps a leg around Arthur's hips. God, but he could spend days on his back with Arthur's weight pressing him down. He rolls his hips upward and Arthur growls, steadies him a heavy hand to his thigh. "We can't, Merlin."

"Yes, we really can," Merlin insists, thrusting upward.

"Merlin--"

"What?" Merlin asks, hating the way he sounds like a petulant child. "Don't you want me?"

Arthur groans, presses his erection against Merlin's hip. "You know I do."

"Then come _on_."

"God." Arthur dips his head and catches Merlin's mouth, curls his tongue inside. Merlin hums happily and drags his toes across Arthur thigh, but before he can get his hands inside Arthur's trousers, Arthur is groaning and untangling their legs, pushing himself up and away. "You don't play fair," he says, voice ragged.

But Merlin doesn't care about fair or not. He just cares about Arthur, about the heat of his skin and the taste of his mouth and knowing that he's solid and real and _here_ and Merlin's. He grabs Arthur's tie and tugs. "Please," he says.

"Shit," Arthur exhales, dropping his weight back onto Merlin's chest. Merlin hums, pleased, and slants his mouth under Arthur's. He slides his tongue into Arthur's mouth, slick and hot and almost enough to drive all the thoughts out of Merlin's head. He arches off the couch, and feels the deep, rumbly sound that Arthur makes low in his chest.

"Merlin, wait--"

Merlin groans, tightens his grasp, but Arthur is too quick, twisting out of his hands and scrambling away from the couch. "No, no," he says, straightening his shirt. "We really do have to go."

"Arthur," Merlin says, frowning and struggling up to his elbows. "What could we possibly have to do at four o'clock on a Friday afternoon?"

"It's a surprise."

"I don't need a surprise." He sit up and pulls his shirt over his head and drops it on the floor. Arthur stares at it, unfocused, and then shakes his head and looks up, blinking.

"You--" he says hoarsely.

He's close -- so close. Merlin can feel it. He pushes himself off the couch and takes a step towards Arthur. Arthur takes a step back.

"Put your shirt on," he says, pointing a finger at it.

"Come to bed."

"We'll be late." Another step towards Arthur. Another step back. Arthur's back hits the wall.

"I don't care."

Arthur's eyes dart to the side. "Merlin," he says warningly, pressing a hand against Merlin's chest. But Merlin just walks right through it, forcing Arthur's arm to bend at the elbow as he moves in close. He curls one hand around Arthur's hip and pins him against the wall.

"Hello," he murmurs, touching the tip of his nose to the bridge of Arthur's.

Arthur makes a panicked noise. "You're very --"

"Persuasive?"

"Distracting."

Merlin grins. "Bed?"

Arthur groans, his head knocking back against the wall. Merlin lowers his head to get that new expanse of skin, but before he can so much as mouth Arthur's jaw, Arthur is pushing him away and telling him, "No, Merlin, honestly, we've _got_ to go."

Merlin chances a bit of a pout at that, a last ditch effort and says, "I thought you had naked pursuits planned."

"I do," Arther whines. "Goddamn it, could you make this more difficult? No, no -- that wasn't a request, Merlin." He's fighting down a grin as he buckles his belt and says, "Later, all right? Just -- please?"

Merlin rakes his hands through his hair and walks over to his shirt, picks it up and yanks it on

"Since you said please," he says, rubbing his hands over his things, trying to take the edge off of his arousal and not doing a very good job of it. He presses the flat of one palm against his cock, ignoring the strangled sound Arthur makes.

"It's a really good surprise," Arthur says hoarsely. "You'll love it. Trust me."

"What if I don't?"

"You will."

There's a car waiting for them. They climb into the back seat and sit too close, keeping their fingers twined together. Arthur seems to want the connection as much as Merlin does; he's clutching at Merlin's hand just as desperately as he's clutching at Arthur's. Merlin squeezes his fingers and throws him a sideways glance.

"You all right?"

Arthur grins, a bit manic. "Yeah. I'm good. Fine, you?"

"You sure?"

"Yeah," Arthur says. He crosses his legs, propping his ankle on his knee and bouncing it restlessly. "Look, if you hate this --"

"I thought you said I'd love it."

"You will. I think you will. You ought to," he says, throwing Merlin a warning look. "But if you don't--"

They both start a little when the car comes to a stop. Merlin turns and looks out his window.

"Another hotel?" Merlin asks, glancing back at Arthur in confusion.

"Sort of," Arthur replies. "Come on."

He guides Merlin up the steps and into the hotel with a hand to the small of his back. Arthur's shoes tap against the white polished floor as he walks up to the front desk like they've all been standing around and waiting for his arrival.

"Hello," he says, pushing Merlin forward. "Arthur Pendragon here to see --"

"Of course," says the woman behind the counter, flashing Arthur a row of white teeth. "Mr. Banks is expecting you." She punches in a few numbers on one of the phones behind the counter and murmurs, "Mr. Pendragon, sir," into her headset.

Moments later, a tall man in a blue suit is hurrying towards them, hand outstretched. "Mr. Pendragon," he says. "And you must be Mr. Emrys, so nice to finally meet you."

"Finally?" Merlin says as Arthur reaches out and shakes the man's hand.

"Mr. Banks," he says. "Thank you for meeting with us. Merlin, Mr. Banks is the event coordinator for the Small Press Expo."

"Oh," Merlin says. He looks between the pair of them in their suits and ties, feeling uncomfortable and vaguely wrong-footed in his jeans and t-shirt. He crosses his arms over his chest. "Hello."

"Please, call me Evan."

"Evan," Arthur says smoothly. "We're on a bit of a schedule, of course --"

"Of course," he says. "If you'll follow me." And then he's leading them through the lobby, talking about the architecture of the building and Arthur is nodding along in what are apparently the appropriate places. Merlin follows along half a step behind, not even bothering to keep up with the conversation and then nearly treading on Arthur's feet when they stop in front of a set of double doors.

Arthur shoots him a look, but he looks more nervous than angry and Merlin chances a smile at him. "Sorry," he whispers. Arthur rolls his eyes and steps back so that Mr. Banks can open the doors. Merlin's eyes go wide as soon as he tumbles through them, and he suddenly wishes he had about four more so that he could see everything properly. All around people are carrying signs and boxes, winding their way through the tables lined up around the room. An enormous man with a snake tattooed down the length of his arm walks in front of them carrying a table above his head and Arthur grins, shoots Merlin a sideways glance.

"This is the expo," he hisses, grabbing at Arthur's arm. "The comic book expo."

Arthur laughs. "Got it in one," he says.

"Your table is right this way," Evan is saying, pointing towards the far side of the room. "I hope you'll find it --"

"Hang on," Arthur breaks in, pulling up short. "I thought I said the front of the room."

Evan grimaces. He straightens his tie and says, "I'm afraid on such short notice --"

"Arthur, what table?"

"Hang on, Merlin," Arthur says, putting up a hand. "This isn't at all what we discussed."

"_Arthur_."

"Hang _on_, Merlin."

"If," Merlin says, making another grab at Arthur's arm. "This surprise is what it appears to be, the sentiment is lovely, but I think you're missing a little something in the execution."

At that, Arthur's mouth snaps closed. He glances at Merlin and then around the room, and then back at Merlin.

"Er -- surprise," he says, holding his hands out, palms up. "Sorry."

Before he even means to, Merlin finds himself cradling Arthur's face and kissing him, not even caring that Mr. Banks is making an embarrassed noise just over Arthur's shoulder, or that someone at the table beside them is whistling. When he pulls back, Arthur's face is bright red, but he's smiling.

"You really bought me a table?" he whispers.

"I really did," Arthur murmurs, so clearly pleased with himself that Merlin's heart skips in his chest.

"Thank you."

"Welcome," Arthur replies, voice pitched low.

"You are the most --"

"Amazing? Generous? Thoughtful?"

"Yes," Merlin surprises himself by saying. "Yes, all of that."

And it shocks Arthur a little too, Merlin can tell, because his eyes go wide and he stumbles back a step. "Oh," he says, going red all over again.

"Of course," Merlin hurries on, "you've put me in a bit of a predicament as I don't really have anything to show."

"That's the next bit," Arthur tells him. He smiles. "We're getting there."

__________________________

Three hours later, they're back in their hotel room with a half-eaten curry and three hundred copies of _The Adventures of Artemis_ on the table between them and in piles on the couch and floor. There's a vague feeling of dread behind the dull ache in Merlin's head, and Merlin thinks that if he has to look at one more stupid copy of his stupid book, he's going to throttle Arthur.

It's an uncharitable thought, he knows. He's still a little overwhelmed at the amount of thought Arthur put into the weekend, contacting the local office of his company and bribing someone for use of their copy room, the hotel room, the expo itself. He knows he ought to be grateful, but all he can think are the thousands of ways this can go wrong. He opens his mouth to tell Arthur no, no, this is a bad idea, to take it all back and demand they go to the duck thing instead, but what comes out is, "I can't believe you stole those staplers."

Arthur doesn't even look up. "Well, how else were we going to hold the copies together, Merlin? Willpower?"

"You don't think someone will notice?"

"PricewaterhouseCoopers is an enormous company, Merlin. I hardly think they're going to miss two staplers."

"It's a company full of accountants, Arthur. They'd miss an errant post it note."

Arthur looks up and grins. "You're freaking out."

"I'm not."

Arthur lifts an eyebrow. His eyes flit over Merlin's face, examining him. It's unnerving, but Merlin forces himself not to fidget or get up and run from the room. After a moment, Arthur walks around the table, drops to his knees in front of Merlin and, cradling his face between his hands, kisses him.

Merlin sinks into it. He sighs into Arthur's mouth and cards his fingers through Arthur's hair and lets one leg curl high around Arthur's hip.

"Bed now?" he asks when Arthur pulls back far enough to press wandering kisses down his throat.

"Mmm," Arthur murmurs. "Couch? No, you're right, bed. I don't want to crush all my hard work."

"You just don't want paper cuts on your arse."

Arthur laughs and hauls him upright, but his hands are gentle when he trails his fingers under Merlin's shirt. He lifts it up and over Merlin's head and the leans in close to whisper, "You're going to be brilliant, Merlin. You're going to be amazing."

He lets Arthur push him down onto the bed and press promises into his skin.

__________________________

By Sunday night, the weekend feels like looking through a series of snapshots on someone else's camera. Sitting on the hotel bed with the sheets pooled around his waist, Merlin frowns and tries to remember something more than handing out copy after copy of _The Adventures of Artemis_ and shovelling cold sandwiches into his mouth. There's the thrill of seeing someone else laugh at his work, the hot rush at the back of his neck the first time someone asked him to sign a copy of his book, and Arthur, always Arthur. Arthur at his elbow giving out change and Arthur cracking jokes and Arthur pouring coffee down Merlin's throat and brushing Merlin's hair off his face.

Even now, when the exhaustion of it all has caught up with both of them, Arthur is puttering around the room stuffing shoes and shaving foam into his bags and muttering aloud about the best way to go about finding a website designer and Merlin needing a new scanner and --

"Business cards," Arthur says, pointing his toothbrush at Merlin. "First thing tomorrow. You've got to be able to network."

Merlin nods sleepily and leans back on the pillows, smiling as Arthur pulls out his Blackberry and types something into the keypad. It should be scary, Merlin thinks, how much space Arthur takes up in his life, but as he lies there and watches him zip up his suit carrier and then toss it over the back of a chair, all he can think is _how are you real?_ and _how are you mine_?

"Come to bed," he murmurs. Arthur looks up and smiles. Something clenches low in Merlin's belly at that and he pats the bed.

Arthur flips off the overhead light as he pads over, leaving just the dim light of the bedside lamp to cast the room in a soft glow. He lifts the duvet and then pauses to lean down and pick up the folded sheet of paper Merlin put on his pillow.

"What's this then?" Arthur asks, climbing in beside Merlin and flipping open the paper. Merlin feels a sudden rush of heat bloom on his cheeks; he's not even looking at the drawing, but he can see it anyway, the quick sketch that left smudges of ink on his fingers, the line of his cape, the slip of his hair, the 'P' emblazoned on his chest. Merlin is embarrassed a little, feels foolish and childish, and he rolls over and tucks his face against the curve of Arthur's neck so he won't have to look at Arthur.

"You made this? You made me a superhero?"

Merlin nods into the slope of Arthur's shoulder.

"Whatever for?"

"This weekend," Merlin mumbles. "To say thank you." Arthur laughs a little, but it sounds fond more than amused and Merlin sits up, draws back a little to look at Arthur's face. "I know it's silly," he says. "But I don't--"

"It's lovely," Arthur cuts in. His face is soft, so familiar already. He reaches out and touches a finger to the back of Merlin's hand. "You're lovely."

And it's a little ridiculous, really, that that has the power to make Merlin flush all over again, because he isn't, not at all, and it's a ridiculous thing to say besides, but Arthur makes him _feel_ lovely, makes him feel wonderful and _happy_ and brand new all over again. He ducks his head, flips his hand over and catches Arthur's fingers between his.

"Have you always drawn?" Arthur says, softly, like asking for a secret.

Merlin nods. "Since I was little. And then after I got sick my mum enrolled me in one of those classes at a community centre, you know? Seemed to think I needed something to get me out of bed in the morning. Something to 'sustain my soul', she said."

Arthur draws a circle on Merlin's hand. "We all need that," he says.

Merlin smiles, leans into Arthur's body. "So what do you do, then, Arthur Pendragon? To sustain your soul?"

Arthur's free hand comes up and cups Merlin's cheek and he tilts his head to whisper into the hollow beneath Merlin's cheekbone, "I rescue sad, lonely, horribly dressed --

"Hey."

"Big-eared--"

"Oi!" Merlin says, trying to pull back, but Arthur holds firm and says,

"Exceedingly talented--

"Mmm."

"Gorgeous baristas from themselves."

Merlin hums, presses back into the touch. "Superhero," he murmurs.

He can feel the curve of Arthur's smile against his skin. "That's right."

__________________________

They're halfway back to London before Merlin works up the nerve for it. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and scrolls down to his mother's number. He sits there, thumbs poised over the keypad. Eventually, he types out _sorry_ and hits the send button.

Not a minute passes before a new message pops up on the screen.

_love you_.

Merlin smiles and slides the phone into his pocket.

"Sorted?" Arthur asks.

"Sorted," Merlin tells him. He closes his eyes and leans against Arthur, lets the gentle rock of the train lull him to sleep.

__________________________

It's hot that June, muggy and stifling in the way that only London can be, and Arthur takes to lying about his flat in various states of undress and moaning. Merlin finds he'd be more inclined toward sympathy if Arthur didn't look quite so good half-dressed with his hair stuck to his forehead, but makes the appropriate noises when Arthur complains and starts bringing ice cream home from the shop.

"Fan me with something," Arthur tells him one Saturday afternoon, immobile and plastered to his couch. "For the love of god, Merlin, fan me with something."

"Let's go to a film," Merlin says. "Air conditioning, Arthur, and Smarties, mmmmm."

"I can't," Arthur whines. "I can't possibly put on clothes."

"If you go like that we'd almost certainly get in for free," Merlin says, tipping his head back against the couch. Arthur laughs a little and tousles Merlin's hair, but it's too hot for touch, so he flops his arm back on the couch and moans.

"Merlin, come on--"

"Oh, you really are utterly useless," Merlin laughs. He grabs a stack of magazines and papers off the coffee table and flings them back at Arthur. "Fan yours--"

A sheet of paper flutters out of the stack and lands on the floor beside Merlin. It's upside down, but he can still make out the letterhead, and he stares at it for a moment, uncomprehending, and then he goes cold all over. He can't -- there's no way -- they've been absolutely, unfailingly safe, but that doesn't stop fear, icy and terrifying, from gripping at Merlin's heart. He reaches for the paper and turns it around. He registers the words _Dear Mr. Pendragon_ and _for your generous contribution_ and his heart freefalls in his chest.

"What's this, Arthur?"

"What's what?" Arthur asks, lifting his head. "Oh, just one of those form letters. One of those thank you letters they send when you give money to charity, you know?"

"You gave money to the Terrence Higgins Trust?"

"Mmmhmm. I know it's a bit obvious, but my PA said that they're --"

"Your ... PA?"

"Yeah, she usually handles those sorts of things for me."

"Those sorts of things," Merlin repeats, monotone. He pushes himself up off the ground.

"What's wrong?" Arthur asks, levering himself up onto his elbows. "Merlin?"

"I can't believe you just ... that's your solution to this."

"Solution? What are you talking about?"

"This isn't something you can throw money at, Arthur. This isn't something you can buy."

"It's not -- Jesus Christ, Merlin. Is that what you think I'm doing?"

"Well what else--"

"I have a boyfriend with HIV," Arthur bites out, climbing off the couch and reaching for a shirt. "I'd think that giving money to the UK's largest HIV charity would be a bit of a given."

"You are unbelievable," Merlin says harshly, shaking his head. "Un-fucking-believable."

"What the hell is your problem?"

"I don't need saving, Arthur."

"I never said you did."

"Well you're fucking well acting like it," Merlin tells him, and Christ, his hands are shaking. He's angry, he thinks wildly. Really properly angry. God, he can't remember the last time he -- but that's good. Anger is good though; it's like a rush of fresh blood to his heart, making him feel faint at the steady _umph, umph, umph_ of it, the sound up near his ears now.

"What the hell, Merlin? What are you even --"

"This," Merlin says, cutting him off and shaking the letter in his face. "Your 'generous contribution'. Fucking Bristol. Fucking all of this. I'm not your charity case."

"Fuck you," Arthur says, voice flat. "Fuck you, Merlin. That's nothing to do with it, and you know that."

"I don't know shit, Arthur, and neither do you. You don't know anything about me."

"So we're here again," Arthur says, not quite a question. He exhales shakily and brushes past Merlin to walk into the kitchen. He opens the fridge, closes it, then turns around and leans up against it. He looks tired, Merlin thinks without really meaning to, and something deep inside Merlin's chest clenches with the need to go over and press his cheek against Arthur's, to take it all back, but a bigger part of him wants to rage and scream and bruise Arthur. He looks down at the letter in his hand and his stomach churns.

"Why are you doing this?"

"I need to go," Merlin says. He drops the letter to the floor, biting down the words that are trying to claw their way out of his throat -- that he wanted it to be different with Arthur. That _he_ wanted to be different with Arthur, to be more than some stupid fucking --

"What are you talking about, go? Hang on, Merlin. This is ridic--"

"I'm sick, Arthur." Merlin says, desperate now, flinging the words at Arthur like knives. "I'm _sick_."

"Merlin."

"And you can't make that go away."

"_Merlin_."

"I _am_ going to get sicker. I _am_ going to die."

"Shut up," Arthur tells him, angry now. His eyes are flashing in a way that thrills and terrifies Merlin. "Just shut up, all right?"

"You're still trying to fix this, Arthur, and you _can't_. You just can't."

"You don't think I know that?" Arthur roars. "You don't think I fucking know that? Do you have any idea what it's like for me? What it's like to have every goddamn thing I've ever wanted just handed to me and this, the one thing I want more than anything, to know I can never have it? You don't think I'd give everything I have to make this go away? Because I would, every fucking thing I own. I would live in a fucking box, Merlin, if I could make you better and I _can't_ and it's killing me."

When Arthur finishes, his chest is heaving and his eyes are bright with something Merlin doesn't want to identify, and it feels -- god, it feels -- Merlin chokes back the sick feeling rising in his throat and walks blindly to the table. He gathers his keys and wallet and phone and drops them, heavy like stones, into his pockets.

"Do you know," he says, hand on the doorknob, "the difference between me and you? How you feel, Arthur? It's not _actually_ killing you."

He doesn't look back when he closes the door behind him.

__________________________

That night, Merlin dreams of fucking Arthur bare, skin to skin, nothing between them at all ... it feels like flying.

__________________________

Merlin's throat clenches painfully when he opens his door a week later and sees Arthur standing there in the dimly lit hallway, head down, hands shoved in his pockets. He rakes his eyes over him a bit desperately, taking in the careless rumple of his hair and the fine crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He looks tired, Merlin thinks, and for a moment he lets himself wonder, what if he just reached out to him? What if he just curled his fingers in Arthur's shirt and pulled him close and pretended none of it ever happened?

But then their gazes lock and that poorly constructed fantasy collapses in on itself, because his words are a black thing between them, and Merlin takes a shaky breath in, pushes a shaky breath out and says, "Hey."

"Hey," Arthur says, giving a feeble sort of smile. "I'm sorry, did I wake you?"

Merlin looks down at his ratty t-shirt and his pajama bottoms. He knows that the flat behind him is mostly dark, cast with a sickly blue glow from the silenced television, and he wonders if Arthur can see the pile of blankets and pillows on the couch. Pathetic, he thinks. Hopelessly sad.

"No," he says, stepping back from the door. "Uhm, come in."

He flicks the kitchen light on, blinking into it, and starts gathering up dirty dishes and dumping them into the sink. He turns the tap on, listening to the click of Arthur closing the door, the scuff of his shoes on the floor.

"I came to bring you this," Arthur says after a moment, dropping a torn sheet of paper onto the worktop. "It's uh -- a publisher. For your book. They must've had my number from the expo."

"Oh," Merlin says. He turns off the water and wipes his hands on his pajama bottoms, picks up the paper and stares at Arthur's neat lettering. "That's -- thank you."

"I guess I could've just called."

"Yeah," Merlin agrees, risking a glance at Arthur's face. "You could have."

Arthur sighs and leans against the fridge, crosses his arms over his chest. "I wanted to see you. I wanted to tell you -- I wanted to tell you you're a right idiot."

Merlin's head snaps up. "Excuse me?"

"And I wanted to tell you that it won't work, this pushing me away. I'm in this, Merlin. I'm in it, and if you haven't figured that out by now--"

"You can't just--" Merlin tries, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He sighs, tired all the way through. "Can't you just, for once in your life, Arthur, just walk away?"

"No," Arthur says. "No, I can't."

Merlin huffs out something like a laugh, though there's nothing about any of it that feels even remotely funny. He's been utterly miserable this past week, staring at his phone and waiting for it to ring, wavering between hope and the sort of despair that makes bones ache. And now, now Arthur is here and saying everything Merlin's been too scared to let himself want and all he can say is, "Go. Please just go."

"No, Merlin, no. I know what you're doing, and it won't work. You can't scare me away."

"You think--" Merlin says, looking up and shaking his head. "Do you have any idea what my life--"

Arthur startles them both when he laughs. "Your life?" he says bitterly. "Don't act like that's what this is about."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means," Arthur says, taking a step towards him, "that you act like you're already at the end of it. You act like all you are is this one thing--"

"One thing?"

"It's a _horrible_ thing," Arthur says, his voice shaking. "A horrible, horrible thing, but it doesn't make you, Merlin. You're so much more. You've got so much --" he exhales, breath coming in a shudder. "I'm just asking to be a part of that."

It takes looking down at his own hands to realize they're clenched white on the worktop. He uncurls them, turns to Arthur, squaring his shoulders so he'll feel less like some horrid sap for crying when he tells him, "I don't want to be angry. I don't want to die angry. I've made .... some sort of peace with this, Arthur, but if I have to go through the rest of my life knowing that I have to leave you at the end of it--"

"Then why are you trying to leave me now?"

Merlin chokes out a laugh, says, "It's been what? Two months? Three? And you're already --"

"So you think this is better?" He waves a hand between them. "You'd rather live like this?"

"No!" Merlin shouts. "No. You think this is what I _want_?"

"Then stop _fighting_ me, Merlin. Is it so fucking difficult to just let me love you?"

Merlin buries his face in his hands at that, unable to look at Arthur any longer, unable to look at anything. He breathes in, out, in, out, trying to stop his heart from knocking right out of his chest.

"It can take a dozen years or more--" Arthur says softly, his voice close now. Too close.

"It's been three already."

"Stop trying to scare me, Merlin," Arthur says, and his breath is warm on Merlin's face now. "It can take a dozen years for HIV to progress to AIDS, and that's even without treatment. We could have decades. We could have _ages_."

"I can't--"

"And we know how to be careful," Arthur says. "And I'd rather have a dozen hard years with you than a lifetime with anyone else. It's not a sacrifice for me to be with you, Merlin, and if it was, I'd make it anyway."

"I couldn't _live_ with myself, Arthur. Do you have any idea--"

"For god's sake, one of us could be killed in a car crash tomorrow. Is that reason enough to walk away?"

"That's different."

"It isn't. Nothing in life is certain, Merlin. Nothing. If I'm going to have to lose you one day," Arthur chokes out, "please don't make it be today."

"Don't be so melodramatic," Merlin tells him, but the words catch on the lump in his throat and he reaches out blindly for Arthur's hands. "And if you say something like, this is about life, not about death, I will absolutely punch you in the stomach."

"Don't," Arthur replies, his words whisper-soft. "I'm fond of your hands. I"d hate to see them broken on my account."

Merlin snorts a laugh and steps into Arthur's space and rests his forehead against Arthur's, trying to calm the frantic jack hammer of his heart. "You really are," he says, tightening his grip on Arthur's hands, "the most arrogant, self-important--"

Arthur laughs, breathless, and laces their fingers together, pressing their palms flush. "That's a yes, isn't it?"

And just like that, Merlin finds there's nothing else for it. He just doesn't want to struggle any more; he can barely remember what he was struggling against in the first place. He lifts Arthur's hand to his cheek so that he can take in the scent of his skin, and he decides that this, the ability to stand here and touch Arthur like it's his right, to lean into the curve of his shoulder and rest there, it's worth everything.

He lifts his mouth to Arthur's ear, fits there against the ridge of his cheekbone and tells him, "Yes."

__________________________

When Merlin wakes the next morning, Arthur is sprawled across him, duvet half on and half off the bed. He considers briefly trying to roll Arthur back to his side of the bed -- his breath is appalling and his stubble is scratching Merlin's chest -- but only gets as far as resting his hand against Arthur's shoulder. He presses his fingertips into all that sleep-warm skin, traces a thumb along the sharp ridge of Arthur's collarbone. Arthur makes a snuffling noise against his chest and Merlin grins. He drags his fingers up and over Arthur's shoulder, the dip where his shoulder meets his neck and then up, up, up further still until he's cradling the side of Arthur's face, fingers carding through his hair, feeling his reassuring warmth of life beneath his fingertips. In his sleep, Arthur makes a soft noise and presses back into the touch and Merlin -- Merlin thinks, all right, then. This is as good a place to start as any.


End file.
